CHRONICLE FICTION; Fire-Eaters, Flying Cats and Joseph Conrad

By Suzy Hansen

Published: September 26, 2004

VAMPIRES, pirates and lusty French socialites: now that's a recipe for a good time. These are just some of the characters in a new novel called HAWKES HARBOR (Tor/Tom Doherty, $21.95), a tale of monstrous men and the long, tricky road to redemption, mostly set in the 1950's and 60's. What's also exciting, and surprising, about this book is that it's written by an author familiar to many readers not because of her predilection for the fantastical but because of her timeless, gritty stories of teenage life. Ponyboy, anyone?

Yes, S. E. Hinton is back. After ''The Outsiders,'' ''Tex,'' ''Rumble Fish'' and a few recent children's books, Hinton has written an ''adult'' novel that can awaken the rough-and-tumble child in anyone. According to her publisher, it's her first in 15 years.

''Hawkes Harbor'' is a curious comeback. It's the story of Jamie Sommers, a sad Roman Catholic orphan turned debauched sailor who enjoyed an exciting life at sea fighting off sharks, stealing jewels and generally being bad, until he landed, destitute and drunk, in small-town Delaware. When we meet Jamie (the novel moves back and forth in time), he's a bit older and in a place that, to him, is probably infinitely more exotic than the South China Sea: a mental asylum. As he explains to his doctor, he has suffered at the hands of what he calls ''It.'' He's also very, very afraid of the dark. Judging by the terror that grips him, Jamie has endured some truly awful abuse.

What might have been simply an entertaining, weird, fast-moving story also exhibits a peculiar religiosity. Could it be that the bad boy has been subjected to the ultimate sort of reform? Is this the price he must pay in order to make it to heaven? Hinton's ability to engage hasn't faded, but the punitive subtext of ''Hawkes Harbor'' makes her novel even creepier.

The kinky world of macabre reform continues with Michael Blaine's second novel, THE MIDNIGHT BAND OF MERCY (Soho, $25), a story not of monsters but of prim late-19th-century New York ladies who kill things in the name of good works. Blaine's thriller stars Max Greengrass, a poor, ambitious reporter who, in between drinks in various Greenwich Village saloons, happens upon four dead cats, curiously arranged on the sidewalk outside a brothel. The sinister plot spins into far more disturbing territory, especially after some ministers get involved. It becomes harder and harder to remember that Blaine's narrative is, as he says, based on ''a true story.''

Despite its oddly ominous title, ''The Midnight Band of Mercy'' isn't really a heart-pounder -- the many break-ins, chases and fights feel more like the predictable features of an action movie. Instead, the novel presents some absorbing riffs on what often seems like the heart of New York history: the scamps, whores and dirty bars; the shadowy alleys and teeming tenements; the dreams of immigrants; the shamelessness of the powerful; the ragtag style of yellow journalism. Blaine meticulously delivers on all this -- sometimes too well, in language that can be frustratingly unfamiliar -- but he can also push the plot forward in comically hokey ways. (''He had to write to stay alive,'' Blaine notes of Max's dire situation.) And then there are Max's love affairs, which might have been lifted from a steamy soap opera. Still, ''The Midnight Band of Mercy'' is a boisterous curiosity of a book, one that puts modern-day urban scandals into perspective.

Historical curiosities -- a furniture-eating Irishman, a winged kitty -- populate John Barlow's EATING MAMMALS (Perennial/HarperCollins, paper, $12.95), another book (in this case, a collection of three novellas) supposedly anchored in truth, or, at least, family lore. Barlow possesses a dry wit that relies on elaborate, matter-of-fact description to highlight the obvious eccentricity of his subjects. He writes, for example, of the performance artist and furniture connoisseur Michael (Cast Iron) Mulligan: ''The cheers soon fell away to nothing as, pulling a golden spoon from his pocket, he stooped down and collected a sample of the chair dust, inspected it for color and aroma and popped the loaded spoon into his mouth.'' Often, however, the author keeps his characters at a distance (though he's less chilly in the last piece, ''The Donkey Wedding at Gomersal'').

A chef narrates the first novella, ''Eating Mammals,'' but we get little sense of our storyteller, even after he goes on to imitate the aforementioned digestive guru, gobbling up unappetizing objects at local fairs. Instead, Barlow is most fascinated by the oddities at hand. In the second novella, ''The Possession of Thomas-Bessie,'' he lends most of his affection to the flying feline at the center of the story. Barlow's imagination appears unlimited, almost attuned to a parallel world; you just wish he'd brought his characters a little closer to home.

Imagining the life of an eminent writer seems like a project many other writers would be tempted to tackle -- and then shudder at the thought of actually embarking upon. How to do justice to your literary hero? In SAILORS ON THE INWARD SEA (Free Press, $24), Lawrence Thornton recreates the later years of Joseph Conrad, with some risky twists. First, Jack Malone, who evidently served as the model for Conrad's Marlow, narrates Thornton's novel in letters to Ford Madox Ford, another friend of Conrad's. Second, Malone reveals to Ford that Conrad felt extraordinarily guilty for appropriating Malone's life, even swearing Malone to secrecy about the origins of his most famous character: ''He has betrayed more than a friend. He has also betrayed his imagination, the source of his work. It is a terrible paradox.''